The White Woman
by Queen
Summary: From the silence comes reflection, and sometimes broken dreams are all you can see. A small reflection (forgive the pun) on one of the less noticible characters of IY- Kanna. Please R&R!


The White Woman

  
  
  
  


There is a certain Beauty in the blankness of a page. White, clear, empty, only to become scarred by my markings. The sheets are bright against my hands, lightly contrasting one paleness to another. Ah. Be careful with the delicacy of the paper. It tears easily.   


_The firefly but burns and makes no comment_

Lightly, lightly, press the brush against the paper. Use water to dilute the ink. Strong blackness means clear thoughts, clearly marked. The whiteness is purity, unscarred by the darkness. Water to lighten the darkness. Water to show the sorrow of my words. 

_Silence sometimes speaks of deeper thoughts_

The paper is a silent universe, and I float wide in a blank white world.   
My mirror reflects a profile of glass, both hard and fragile. I am a transparent thing. Pale creature. I am Nothing, and it is so easy not to see Nothing. How beautiful is a sky at night, without the velvet blackness between the stars? Nothing comes from Nothing. If everything has always existed, then Nothing has also always existed. I do wonder at times, what will happen when they are victorious. When chichi-ue dies, and so our source of life. Kagura-chan fears death. I do not so much fear the Nothingness. One who is Nothing cannot fear herself, for there is Nothing there to feel.   
Such things are transitory.   
I am an abstract of Nothing, and so Nothing is what I am. How to be Nothing? What personality does Nothing portray? What emotion should Nothing express? Of course, the answer is none. And yet, it is written that silence speaks of deeper thoughts. Perhaps it is so. Which leaves me to watch. To listen and observe of the drama in which I take part. My companions are reflections, unreal. There is no soul in the reflection. My image is reflected, a replica of illusionary magic. Edge of echo. Shade of cloud. In my small hands rests oblivion. If I lose myself, will I find myself again?__

_If I were to vanish away, would you come seeking my name even unto the grave?_

  


There is a white ghost in the mirror.   
Is Nothing a part of Hell? It would seem so, if my creation is real, to be believed. I am Godless, and he is Hell. Irony is a satiric thing.   
I do wonder at the curse of Hell. It seems to enjoy the Nothingness, enjoy the biting harshness of the Wind. Look into the reflection, look into the mirror. They travel now, steady in their course. I do pity the one. To use a curse to the benefit of oneself is a wonderous ability, rebellion against fate. And yet to know that the Nothingness shall one day consume. Not knowing. Never knowing. Beyond death lies the Nothingness. How horrible to die, for those who do feel. Never knowing anything else, it is not a difficult concept to adjust to.   
Dip the brush in the water, paint the characters in faded hand upon the paper. Lightly, lightly. Let the ink pale against the white paper. Faded, faded, washed away into the emptyness of white paper. 

_Raging in faraway hills, the storm sweeps away both scarlet leaves_   
_and dew, leaving no trace._   
__

  


And what of the end? Shall there be a crumbling sky and a flash of jeweled light? Am I to be the lady of Nowhere? Nowhere is here.   
Should I rage? Should I rage against the Nothingness, as Kagura-chan does? Against the fate spun out of our creation? I am not a thing born. I am a thing created. Nothing comes from Nothing. Nothing is not born. Better simply to accept my fate, and bow my head meekly, gently allowing the silence of the mind to wash away despair. Poor brother, already in the white arms of the Nothingness, adrift in the abyss of nightmares. Is there another place to go, when dead?   
no.   
The ressurected one is haunted by nightmares of bleak death. See how the hate fills her? She is a lonely thing, wandering now in a valley. See how empty her eyes become as the souls filter away from her. Nothing, Nothing inside. Empty, hollow shell of Nothingness. Poor, corrupted thing. Nothing would be a blessing to you. Poor, poor thing. Perhaps if I captured those souls in my mirror, you would be happier in the Nothingness. 

_Where did it come from? As I was wondering, the morning glory_   
_flower faded into pitiful nothingness._

  


Gently. Yes, the calligraphy is fluid, lightly pressed on the page. Should someone else find my copies? Silly Nothingness, to worry of such things. No creativitity comes from the void. No breath of life, no dream in sleep. No new thoughts flow from Nothing. Only reflections of what has already been created. Where do such things come from? Ideas. Hopes, dreams, beauty. Thought. Life.   
Perhaps, somewhere in the Nothingess between the stars, there is a place where such things are born. Is that foolish of me? To hope for an opposite to myself? Hope. That word, too, must be born. Not created, as Nothingness is created. Stars are born, lighting the Nothingness. Where is the place dreams are formed? Is it...is it a happy place? Yes, that is the word. Happy. Silly word. I shall not speak it. Though it must exist, that elusive emotion. The ressurected one does not feel it. Yet the reborn one carries it in her body, in their soul. But then that would mean life is superior to death, and hence Nothingness.   
There is Nothing other than Nothing.   
Nothing comes from Nothing.   
Why do I not feel?   
Perhaps that is why I show Nothing, and my face reveals Nothing. The fragile profile of glass would shatter. Is it better then, to be broken? Rage. Rage against my creation. There is nothing I can do. To fight would mean to usher in my own demise. To rage would usher in my own death. But...I do not fear the Nothingness.   
Carefully, carefully, carefully paint the letters on the page. Bamboo brush, black ink the color of pitch. Drown in the darkness. Press harder, see the stark lines against the empty page.   
I do not fear the Nothingness. I will not fear the Nothingness. What is cold? Is this cold? This sensation that robs me of motion? I will die when we lose. I will die. 

_To be forgotten is not unusual in these sad times-_   
_what is depressing is the lack of consolation._

Silently, I shall bow my head and let silent tears mingle in the cloudy wistfulness of the scarred page. The blankness of my white world is slashed in black letters of sorrowful beauty. Caged entrapment, falling sakura, unable to flow away on currents of wind. Short life, full of Nothingness. Is such a life a life at all? Does Nothing bore the idle reader, who seeks only entertainment?   
I am a white woman, an illuminated shadow on the wall.   
I will be forgotten.   
  
  
  
  
  


*o~O~o*o~O~o*o~O~o*o~O~o*o~O~o*o~O~o*   


  


Yes, this is Kanna speaking...I'm not really certain what I was thinking about when I wrote this...it was awhile ago now, and now that I've seen the anime episodes with Kanna, I decided to go ahead and post it. Why, I'm not really sure...but I've always had a soft spot for the silent characters, the ones who have no expression, no emotion. I wonder what they think. And I don't think I've ever seen a fic about Kanna before. (If there's one out there, I'm curious to see it....) Her sad, distant expression got to me the first time I saw her picture, even before reading about her part in the manga.   
Ever notice the odd parallel between Miroku's kazaana (the air rip) and Kanna and Kagura's powers? It's a little thing, I know, but Naraku seems to be awfully fond of using wind and oblivion.   
The poems used thoughout the fic are by Murasaki, authoress of the great novel _"The Tale of Genji"_ (aka. _Genji Monogatari_). The first _waka_ (the kind of poem- I've also seen it spelled _tanka_) is from "_Genji_" and the rest are taken from Liza Dalby's novel "_The Tale of Murasaki._" Definitely one of the best books I've ever read. Truly beautiful.   
Ja ne, til next storytime.   
~Queen 


End file.
